politewinter.

you never truly see a city for what it is until just after midnight, when the faintest hint of moonlight tinges the treeline with burnished silver, and the buildings themselves seem to whisper ruminations overheard the day past. the wind carries the voices of a dying day, and the weariness drops from your brow for just one brief, fleeting moment, before you lower your eyes and the weight of the world comes crashing back down on your back.